Long Live The...

I'm sitting on a king's throne. I'm not doing anything. I'm not ordering around royal subjects or shouting out royal decrees. I'm just sitting on the throne like I'm trying to get used to the idea that this is actually my throne, and, because it's my throne, I am, in fact, the king. I imagine it's, if not my first day, then at least my first week as acting king/ruler/leader/whathaveyou of whatever state/province/dominion I'm supposed to be in charge of. Here's the strange part, I'm not in standard "kingwear," you know, robes, skins, swords and crowns. Instead I'm wearing a white suit, a beautiful white suit, white shirt, white tie; I imagine if I ever ran into Frank Sinatra in heaven this is exactly what he'd be wearing. Anyway, I go to pick up my scepter, but by accident I nick my finger on one of the gold leafs that sticks out from it. It's just a pin prick, really, but a drop of blood drips out. I try to suck the blood from my finger, but the drop falls onto the pant leg of my pure white suit. I try to clean this little red stain, to rub it out, but the more I rub, the more the blood stain spreads up my leg, jumps my waste, and then up my shirt and onto my tie. Suddenly, it's a runaway train of blood on white cloth, and then, to make matters worse, my finger starts geysering blood everywhere. There's nothing to be done about it, I'm covered, the suit is ruined.

That's when I look up to see you laughing because my suit, the suit you bought for me, the suit that you told me would finally make me look like a real king, is now covered in your blood, and you planned this all along.